


A lucifer to light your fag

by storylinecontinuum



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Historical Hetalia, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27826756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storylinecontinuum/pseuds/storylinecontinuum
Summary: Now something unsavory stirred in his gut as he stared at the man’s amputated limb. A limb that would have grown back had it been Arthur’s.And there it was again, that curse, bubbling up like a spring from the depths, and Arthur knew what he was about to do long before his brain had mobilized his mouth to do it.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	A lucifer to light your fag

**Author's Note:**

> based on a tumblr request: 
> 
> "Because you said that you haven't read the manga you probably don't know that the actual Howard is the grandson of another guy (also named Howard) who England hired despite his "bad leg" and because the old Howard is a grandad he probably was alive and young during the WW2 which leads me to believe that he probably was a soldier who got injured during battle and England decided to keep. And this is perfect for a fic so if you could write one about this I would love that."

The war was won.

The war was won and England felt like he had no less responsibilities than before. He was tired. More tired than he’d felt in centuries. But he also had a million or so men whose return home he had to oversee and the long arduous task of replacing the normality of war with that of peace.

Yes. England was busy. Which is why he was currently so diligently employed in finding excuses to stay rooted to the patch of curb he was sat on for as long as possible. His consciousness could piss off for all he knew. He was the highest ranking officer around here anyways.

The here in question was an occupied air base that they had captured months ago – a place that was abuzz with the excited voices of men flitting around and preparing to get on the transports that would take them to the coast.

And then home.

Arthur closed his eyes as he imagined the sweet song of his land – his flesh and blood – rejoicing at having him back. There was nothing like being home. Well, except perhaps being at sea. When the sea wasn’t crawling with submarines that is. Thankfully he didn’t have to worry about those anymore though he found the lack of some worries felt much like a phantom limb sensation these days. War still seemed to maintain its clutch on him, as it was so apt to do. That normally didn’t bother him but this war was the grittiest and most miserable business he’d seen in a while and even _he_ saw the distaste in getting used to it.

Life had lost its humorous touch, England thought wryly – in the past war was the irony of glamour and muck coexisting but nowadays it was just muck. Perhaps Alfred was onto something when he decided to stick to his planes. The view was certainly better from above.

With a huff at that thought, England dug into his breast pocket and fished out the sorry excuse of a cigarette pack that was his last supply. He used one hand to wriggle it open and was just about to bite into the edge of a stick when he paused.

 _Well bugger_ he clicked his tongue as he peered into the box.

With the end of the war in sight, his men had become stupidly prodigal with their rations - something he, as a responsible commander, should have chewed them out for. Instead he’d found his own reserve of cigarettes dwindling as he doled them out to his boys, not all of whom were cunning enough to wheedle or gamble smokes out of the Americans. (Something England would not stoop so low as to do himself. Not after that chocolate bar fiasco.)

Grumbling to himself, he rummaged around a different pocket for his lighter. Sometimes a nation’s biggest curse was how soft-hearted they were when it came to their people.

Just as he finally found his lighter, however, there was the rumble of an engine and a loaded jeep drove past him, making him reconsider his position on the curb. In the end he decided there was a high possibility he would either inconvenience his boys or get a facefull of exhaust next time, so he juggled the pack and lighter into one hand and shuffled away from the road, nearly missing the odd rhythmical tap that approached from behind.

It was only when an unusual silhouette followed in the wake of the jeep that Arthur looked up and felt his eyes widen.

There was a lone soldier limping down the road ahead of him. The crutch nestled under his right arm made a quiet intermittent tapping sound against the asphalt which was nearly lost among the general din. But Arthur didn’t focus so much on the sound as he did on the man’s features.

He recognized that man.

They’d been prisoners at the same camp a mere few months ago. Arthur still remembered it all – the monotony of their days and the hopeless boredom that all the officers there, Arthur included, had succumbed to. That is until there had been a stir one morning when they’d brought in a man from the nearest hospital. A captive who’d had to recover from having his leg blown off by a mine. All in all nothing bizarre but to the men starved for novelty, the newcomer’s arrival at the camp had been sensational.

They’d hounded him for details about his service, his injury and his recovery but even the most creative minds had run out of questions to ask at some point. The whole affair had lasted for three days.

After that, life at the camp had quickly simmered down back to normal, the only difference being that every morning Arthur would watch the amputee learn how to walk using his crutch with the help of one of the German guards. Arthur remembered hearing the German explain how he’d had to teach his little brother the same thing a few weeks back while he’d been on leave but that was the only thing that stood out in Arthur’s memory.

That and the crippled officer’s name…

Now something unsavory stirred in his gut as he stared at the man’s amputated limb. A limb that would have grown back had it been Arthur’s.

And there it was again, that curse, bubbling up like a spring from the depths, and Arthur knew what he was about to do long before his brain had mobilized his mouth to do it.

“Lieutenant!” he called and watched the man slowly turn around to face him. Arthur’s throat tightened but he ignored it as held out the cigarette pack. The last two cigarettes joggled inside.

“Would you care for a smoke?”

* * *

It didn’t take long for the man – Howard – to recognize him from their days in the camp. Then he’d wobbled over with his crutch, catching Arthur’s hand in a hearty handshake, and they were soon sat next to each other, chatting idly as the smoke from their cigarettes swirled around them.

Howard (or Lieutenant Howard Roberts) had been exchanged shortly after Arthur’s escape from the camp but he’d hit another bout of bad luck after his designated transport home had ran into some issues. So he’d lingered around until another officer had taken pity on him and offered to make him his orderly. An offer which he’d gladly accepted.

“But why would you not want to go home man?” Arthur cried, his cigarette coming dangerously close to the crate of ammunition next to them as his attention strayed from it.

Howard shrugged in response, a small smile pulling at his lips.

“I can’t imagine going home to a house without three brothers in it,” he said and Arthur could only press his lips together at that. After a while of no words being exchanged between them Howard broke the silence. “Does that… does that make me a coward sir?”

The question gave England pause. He swallowed, suddenly reminded of the weeks following Dunkirk when he couldn’t bear to be in the same room as Francis.

“No,” he rasped through a dry mouth. “No, it doesn’t.”

“In fact,” he hurried to change the topic, “none of you boys are cowards. Just by virtue of being here.”

“We were just doing what many have done before us,” Howard said and England once again found himself admiring the man.

“Far from it.” Arthur shook his head. “This war was a nasty piece of work. Nastier than most, trust me.”

“Though for some the real war is only just beginning.” Howard said, flicking his dead cigarette butt to the side. Arthur huffed in response.

“If you call a couple of brats’ showboating a war,” he sneered.

There was a chuckle next to him.

“I don’t mean the yanks and the commies, sir,” Howard clarified. “That one I’ll sit out I think. But back home there’ll be plenty of men looking for a job and I don’t imagine I have much of a fighting chance with these.” He lifted his stump and the crutch resting next to it.

The action roused something deep inside Arthur – some kind of complex sadness mixed with indignation. Howard was a good lad. A good lad who had lost his leg fighting in Arthur’s name. And yet he was one of the many, thousands, that now faced the same predicament, their misery (or humble acceptance in Howard’s case) clawing for attention in Arthur’s head and making him feel like an exasperated parent. The only rational thing to do here was to tap into the happiness of the few and carry on.

After all, Arthur thought bitterly, there was nothing he could do for Howard.

… Or was there?

“Something on your mind, sir?” Howard asked next to him, probably having noticed his prolonged silence.

Arthur turned to look at him – the honest brown eyes, the worn uniform and the face that would look so much younger after a good shave.

“There is in fact.” He chuckled, something of amusement in his voice. “And I think it’s actually a solution this time.”

* * *

The old country house was as charming and serene as usual, Arthur decided as he leaned back in his armchair and sighed, the smell of antique cared-for tapestry filling his nostrils. The quiet was complemented by the birdsong drifting through the windows that had been left open to admit fresh air. _Autumn_ air. None of that sweltering summer stuff, thank you very much.

It was the perfect afternoon to settle down with a good book and Arthur was prepared, a stack of paperbacks resting in his lap. But before Arthur could settle on a title, the quiet click-clack of a cane made him look up and smile at the direction of the doorway.

That should be Howard with his tea now. The last ingredient to complete a lovely day.

And sure enough there was Howard, harried and apologetic as he limped into the room, a silver tray balanced on his free hand.

“My apologies, sir, I imagine you would have liked your tea earlier than this.” The man stopped to regain his breath. England shot him a chastising look.

“Nonsense,” he said sternly, “a gentleman is never in a hurry. It’s undignified.”

His words elicited a smile form Howard and the man’s eyes twinkled as he spoke.

“Well then, I’m eternally saved from disgrace it seems.” His smile turned into a grin and England couldn’t help but return it. _Even wittier than his grandfather, this one_ he thought fondly.

“Come on now,” he said then, waving his hand at the other. “sit down for a bit. I’m not a slave-driver, I won’t force you to make that trek again anytime soon.”

Howard accepted his invitation with a ‘thank you, sir’ and a part of England recognized the familiarity in the idle chatter that sprung between them – that same cozy feeling of hearing Howard’s cane tap around the house when all was quiet.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Howard said at some point. “My grandfather lost the same leg in the war.”

England nodded and wiped some dust from the cover of a tiny novel.

“When you’ve lived as long as I have, you learn that the only thing you can expect of life is a good sense of humor,” he concluded. Howard seemed to turn that over in his mind before shrugging and looking back at his employer.

“As long as there’s a good cuppa to go with it.” He grinned.

Arthur smiled around his cup.

“Hear hear.”

 _A good cuppa_ he thought to himself _or perhaps a dingy rationed cigarette_.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a lyric from a WW1 marching song and a lucifer in the song refers to a popular brand of matches at the time. Full verse goes as follows:
> 
> _Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag  
>  And smile, smile, smile,  
> While you've a lucifer to light your fag,  
> Smile, boys, that's the style.  
> What's the use of worrying?  
> It never was worth while  
> So pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag  
> And smile, smile, smile. _


End file.
